


Rose-Petal Tripwire

by niick



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Florist AU, Jon makes a mean curry, M/M, Stream of Consciousness, Tim is a great wingman even though he's scarcely mentioned, also both are neurodivergent I don't make the rules, both are bad at emotions, florist Martin, sort of!, this one was actually beta read! wow!, tired uni student Jon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:13:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27207169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/niick/pseuds/niick
Summary: In which Martin is a florist and falls in love with one Jonathan Sims who, unfortunately, keeps buying flowers for his girlfriend.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Past Georgie Barker/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist - Relationship
Comments: 19
Kudos: 166





	Rose-Petal Tripwire

**Author's Note:**

> This one was beta read by my pal Vince! Thanks for being one of my biggest fans!
> 
> This one has been on the docket for a while now and I finally managed to get it finished... I'm trying to bust out a couple of my WIPS while I have the motivation so if you're new to the niick franchise maybe check out some of my other stuff! I swear it isn't all this imagery heavy - or is it??
> 
> Anyways, I hope y'all enjoy!

* * *

The first time the man came into the store, it was late December. Snow was drifting around the shop and painting the sky with greys and blues, and the inside of the store was bright and comfortable with its warm glow. Martin had a warm mug of tea wrapped in his hands, and he remembered vividly the steam curling up into the air, the heat sinking into his skin.

The winter was not a popular time for the store - even the holidays didn’t bring all that many customers in. Flowers just… weren’t a _winter thing._

Martin remembered the nearly empty shop; just him and the flowers, his co-workers had left hours before to go shopping for presents. He remembered the way the bell chimed, the way the snow swirled into the room behind the man, the way that he was absolutely _smothered_ in coats, up to the scarf covering his face.

The man came into the store in late December and asked for a bouquet, said it was a Christmas present for his girlfriend. The man came into the store with his hazel eyes and his poorly straightened hair, with his abundance of coats and snow-speckled skin, with his librarian glasses and scruffy stubble. The man came into the store, and Martin fell in love.

\-----

The man came again come February, when the plants outside were just beginning to green. February _was_ a busy time for the store, with Valentines and all, so this time, Martin was expecting him. The man bustled in, still bundled but with not quite as many coats. His hair was longer, now, pulled into a neat braid down the back of his jacket. With his face uncovered Martin realized that the man couldn’t have been much older than him, possibly even in his late twenties…?

But Martin wasn’t staring, really.

The man asked, again, for a bouquet for his girlfriend and, again, asked for Martin to choose the flowers himself. Martin remembered the way the man would twitch and fiddle, staying in one spot but still moving all the same. He looked nervous, almost, his eyes flickering between the other customers in the store. Martin remembered the man’s Oxford sweater, remembered thinking _oh, he must live nearby…_ and he remembered stammering through the entire order.

Martin had made him a lovely bouquet of roses. It was nicer than anything he would have made for another customer, but he never would’ve admitted it. The man seemed satisfied, at least, though Martin remembered that he would never meet his eye. Through the entire conversation, the order, his exit from the shop, he never once made eye contact with _anyone._

Martin let himself think, privately, that he would love to look into those eyes. That he would love to help that man slowly open up, help him become more comfortable around others…

But those were passing thoughts about, realistically, a passing crush, so Martin paid them no mind.

\-----

The third time the man came into the shop, it was midsummer. The heat was sweltering, even in the shop, and one of Martin’s coworkers had set up fans around the counter. The flowers were doing the best they could but still wilting, so the shop was nearly empty. Tim was there, of course, manning the register, and Martin could hear Sasha organizing the chilled bouquets in the back, but it was otherwise devoid of activity.

The man was still, against all odds, wearing a jacket when he came in; a well-worn cotton one that was thin but still had to be stifling in the current weather. He had paused as he entered, and Martin remembered how he had looked as though he was hyping himself up before stepping up to the counter. 

The man had stepped up to the counter, and the man had met Martin’s eyes.

They were gorgeous, that was for certain. They were a deep, warm brown interspersed with swirls of green, reflecting Martin’s stunned face back at himself. The eye contact only lasted a few seconds - the man broke it away in quiet embarrassment - but it was enough for Martin’s crush to twist into something deeper. Something meaningful. Something that left Martin jealous of this man’s girlfriend.

The man had asked for a birthday bouquet for said girlfriend, and he had asked Martin for recommendations on flower choices. Martin remembered stammering through something about carnations and lilies, remembered putting together a bouquet so filled to the brim with love and yearning for the man at the counter. Sasha had given him a smirk at that, he remembered.

He remembered how the man had smiled, small and warm, and thanked him. “Thank you, it’s lovely,” the man had said, and Martin had to restrain himself from letting out a _no you’re lovely_ right there in front of the whole shop. When Martin looked back up the man had already gone, leaving nothing but a few fluttering carnation petals in his wake.

That time, he had gone to Tim and had asked him for the order details. From the look Tim had given him he knew that he was cementing himself in for a gossip session with both of his coworkers later but, at the time, it seemed so very inconsequential. So he looked at the receipts.

The man’s name was Jon. Jonathan Sims.

And Martin had clutched that information close, and it had driven him all through the rest of summer. Part of him was waiting, eagerly, for the holidays - if only to see the man come once again.

\-----

When the man came in next it was October.

A chill was just beginning to settle in, and the leaves outside were a pleasant orange. The man was, yet again, bundled up, clad in shades of umber and orange that rivaled the trees. Martin remembered the way he had looked up so eagerly to meet those eyes-

And how he stopped.

The man had been crying. His gorgeous hazel eyes were puffy and red, his face was pale with exhaustion, and his hands were twitching at his sides. His previously straightened hair hung curly and loose around his chest, streaked with premature greys.

His voice was low when he spoke, Martin remembered. It crackled with disuse as he had asked for a funeral bouquet for his grandmother, as he quietly asked Martin to _just do whatever you think looks best._ Martin had taken one look at him and had asked him - mustering up all the courage he had had - if he _maybe wanted to come into the back for tea?_

This was the first but most memorable of such visits, and the images of Jon unfurling his scarves, rubbing the redness from his eyes, and clasping a mug in his hands were permanently ingrained in Martin’s mind. Jon had looked so tiny in their backroom, haloed on all sides by flowers, that Martin had almost lost it right then and there.

Instead, he had smiled at Jon, sat him down, and asked him about himself. About college, about his girlfriend, his favorite colors, how he found the shop. _Anything_ to take his mind off the grief he was feeling, anything to make him feel better.

Martin remembered the first time he had seen Jon laugh, the way that his smile had lit up his entire face and made him look years younger.

After his tears had dried Jon had asked Martin about the arrangement process and Martin had obliged, the two of them working through the funeral arrangement together. The look on Jon’s face, their hands tangled elbows-deep in canna lilies and baby’s breath, had truly done it for Martin. That was when he finally realized that he had it bad - he would do anything to see that smile again, hard as it was to admit, and he spent the rest of the week in a half-wistful haze.

But Jon had a girlfriend, and Martin had forced himself to give up. To support them from the sidelines and cheer them on, to hopefully someday be someone Jon considered a friend.

\-----

Jon didn’t come in that December.

Martin waited with bated breath all through the winter holidays but saw neither hide nor hair of the lovely man. He apparently didn’t do as well of a job tamping down on his disappointment as he had hoped given the look on Tim’s face, and when he finally got off for the holiday break he spent the entire vacation in an awful mood.

It was just that… you were supposed to spend the holidays _with_ someone, is all. And Martin’s mother had been gone for awhile and the house was so big and empty and-

Martin couldn’t help but wish that Jon were in his arms, drinking spiced cider and singing along to crappy Christmas music. Maybe Jon would wear a holiday jumper for the occasion, maybe they would build a gingerbread house together and laugh when it all fell apart, maybe they would embrace under the mistletoe that they both had set up earlier.

But speculation was speculation, and Martin spent the holidays alone.

To add injury to insult he managed to catch a stomach bug that lasted him through January, keeping him locked up in his flat and only able to stomach canned peaches and rice. There were many moments, sweaty and delirious, that he hoped that Jon would somehow come to him, bring him some medicine or a weighted blanket, and ask him if he were okay.

He celebrated the new year with a bowl of applesauce and a warm bottle of Gatorade, wrapped up in as many blankets as he could find around the house.

\-----

The week after new years, there was a knock at the door.

Martin had finally been feeling well enough to eat solid foods, and he was even feeling human enough to put on something resembling a put-together outfit (an old jumper with a corgi on it and tatty sweatpants) to answer the door.

Jon was standing in the hallway.

The short man was nearly dwarfed by the bouquet he clutched - clearly Tim’s work, all bright colors and big blossoms - and he was fiddling nervously with the hem of his jumper. He had snow in his hair, barely blending in with the greys, and a bag of groceries in his hand. Martin couldn’t help but gape in shock.

At his silence Jon looked up, nerves clearly painted across his face. He held out the bouquet and groceries as to explain himself and then worked his lip between his teeth, opening and closing his mouth as though working on what to say.

“Your coworkers told me you were sick,” he decided, voice quiet and slightly hoarse. He scuffed a boot against the cheap carpeting of the apartment complex hallway and finally met Martin’s eye, a clear question on his face.

Martin immediately stepped aside to let him in, still slightly stunned. He considered, briefly, that _maybe he was still delirious from the fever,_ but watching Jon backdropped against the cheerful yellow walls of his flat snapped him out of his reprieve. The man had set up in his kitchen, groceries set down on a nearby counter and bouquet still clutched awkwardly in his hands. 

He looked so small and out of place in Martin’s kitchen.

This finally jumped Martin into action, and he stretched to reach the top shelf that held the vases. He put one down carefully in the sink and filled it with water, trying to ignore the tight silence and the vulnerability of having someone in his home. He busied himself with getting the bouquet settled on the kitchen table as a way of avoiding conversation, spending longer than he needed to re-arranging leaves again and again.

“I broke up with Georgie,” Jon blurted in lieu of a greeting. “It was… mutual. Rough. I was too little and she was too much. Just thought you, ah…” He trailed off, leaving the sentence unfinished.

The silence after that was unbearable, so Martin lifted the bag of groceries from the counter and selected an easier topic. He resolutely ignored the thrill that that statement had given him, instead settling for this:

“Spices and chicken? And um… rice? This is nice, Jon, but-”

Jon strode over and pulled the bag out of his hands, placing it back on the counter to pull all of the contents out.

“I thought I would, ah… make you curry. Since…” Jon paused, embarrassed, letting his brain catch up with his mouth. “You er, haven’t been able to eat… solid foods, yes? And I thought… I thought it would be a nice, ah, nice gesture but now I’m realizing... it’s a bit, um, of a strange and invasive one, yeah, I should probably stop? I mean who, ah, uses someone else’s kitchen without asking, and I, I really just barged in here-”

Martin’s shoulders relaxed at the all-too-familiar derailing train of thought, letting a fond chuckle slip out without him really meaning to. Jon immediately stopped talking, dark skin flushing slightly as his mouth snapped shut.

“Jon it’s… I really appreciate it.”

Jon’s tense posture softened, just a little bit, and a wry smile made its way across his face.

“Where, ah, do you keep your pans? And, er, rice cooker, if you have one.”

Martin smiled reassuringly at him, the rest of the embarrassment from earlier leaving his system and being replaced by a disbelieving sort of confidence. He pulled down a clearly unused skillet and his battered old rice cooker from their proper places, plugging the cooker in and taking a step back.

“I don’t normally cook so… um… this is the only skillet I have?”

Jon sighed with no weight behind it, walking to stand in front of Martin’s fridge. The man reached for the handle before pausing slightly, and then turning towards Martin.

“Ah, can I? I realize that... going through someone’s fridge might seem like an invasion of privacy, so I just wanted to. Ask.”

Martin’s heart warmed so much with fondness that he nearly forgot to reply, but then Jon’s words caught up with him and he flushed in embarrassment.

“Oh, um! Yeah, go for it! It’s, it’s a bit embarrassing in there since I haven’t been eating much but…” He trailed off, grimacing at his own failure of the English language. “Yeah.”

Jon opened the fridge, frowing at the sheer lack of food but thankfully not commenting. He rooted around for a moment before finally pulling out a tub of plain yogurt with a triumphant little huff, placing it on the counter with the rest of the ingredients.

“Sorry about, ah, that. I… thought I had all the ingredients but I. Seemed to have. Forgotten the yogurt. Apparently.” Jon ran a hand through his hair, his fingers catching on tangles and pulling them apart in a single, practiced moment. “I’m usually… more put together than this, I… I’m sorry, Martin. I would, ah, blame it on the recent breakup but… that would be rude of me, I think.”

Martin realized, in a sudden rush of understanding, that Jon was _just as nervous_ as he was. The thought made his head spin, just a little, as he took in the slight frazzling of Jon’s hair, the chewed ends of his nails, the flush to his face and…. Martin finally processed that _Jon brought him a bouquet._ Jon went. To where he worked. And asked about his absence. To Tim. And bought him. A bouquet.

Martin might just faint then and there, if not for the delicious smells coming from the skillet that was now bubbling under Jon’s careful watch.

He stood there, stunned and overwhelmed by fondness, as he watched Jon stir a myriad of spices and seasonings into expertly cut up chicken, the warm smell of paprika filling his kitchen as Jon worked his magic.

Curry took a lot less time than Martin thought, but who was he to tell - he had been staring dreamingly at Jon the entire time, watching him move about in the kitchen like he was born doing it. Jon had somehow prepared wonderfully fluffy rice with his shitty rice cooker, and the yogurt from his fridge managed to not be spoiled… so Martin counted that as a definite win.

He found himself blearily questioning what timeline this was as Jon plated the meals, the two of them sitting across from each other at his rickety kitchen table with Tim’s massive bouquet between them. Now that he was looking at it he really did want to kill Tim - the mix of roses, tulips, and carnations was downright seeping with yearning, and even _Martin_ could tell that this was a Valentines bouquet.

It was the nicest thing anyone had done for him.

Martin took a tentative bite of the curry in front of him and was yet again overwhelmed with fondness for the man in front of him. The man who went out of his way to make him a meal after knowing he was sick, the man who brought him flowers and-

Wait.

Wait a damn minute.

Was this… _was this a date????_

“Is this a date?” He blurted, face growing redder by the second.

Jon immediately stiffened in his seat, thumb coming up to pick at the skin on his other hand. Now that Martin was really looking _yeah,_ Jon’s skin was slightly flushed, all the way up to his ears and down his neck.

“Do you… ah, do you want it to be?” Jon asked, a quiet intensity behind the words.

Martin swallowed thickly, looking from the bouquet to the curry and then back to Jon.

“Yeah I, uh, I think I’d like that. If this were... a date, I mean. As long as you don’t mind!”

There was a pregnant pause, and Martin could practically feel his heart making its way up his throat… and then Jon _smiled,_ a real, genuine smile that lit up his eyes - and Martin was _gone._ Jon stopped fiddling with his hands to reach one across and grab Martin’s, making steady and cautious eye contact the whole time. Martin smiled back at him and squeezed his hand, the tension once again bleeding from the atmosphere.

He took another bite of his curry, and it tasted all the much better knowing the intentions behind it. He could feel Jon’s eyes on him as he finished eating, could practically feel how pleased Jon was at Martin enjoying his cooking. It was _adorable._ Honestly shameful that Martin ever felt threatened by this man.

Jon rubbed a little circle into Martin’s palm with his thumb, and Martin thought that maybe - just maybe - things might not be so bad after all.

**End.** ****

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all so much for reading! Catch me on instagram @niick.draws :)


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